


by any other name

by Eguinerve



Category: Arthurian Mythology, La Légende du Roi Arthur - Savio & Skread & Zaho/Chouquet/Attia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Awkward Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eguinerve/pseuds/Eguinerve
Summary: A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and Maleagant by any other name would still be an unapproachable asshole.
Relationships: Arthur/Maleagant (La Légende du Roi Arthur)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is some shit going on in my life, so I’m writing a silly & lightheaded coffee shop AU to distract myself. Also, it’s been exactly three years since I’ve started writing for this fandom. Holy shit.  
> Another thing: this story is technically set in modern-day Britain, but it is NOT brit-picked in the slightest.

Maleagant wakes up when it’s dark outside, then spends forty minutes squeezed between strangers in a suffocating tightness of the underground. He’s irritated and miserable and willing to kill for caffeine, and so the small coffee shop he stumbles across on his way to work almost feels like a godsend. 

_‘The round tables’,_ reads the sign above the door. 

Maleagant snorts. 

Squeezed between a late-night restaurant and a convenience store, the coffee shop is a tiny quaint thing, nothing but a counter and four— _round_ —tables. It’s empty aside from the bored-looking barista, which isn’t the best advertisement for their coffee, but at this point Maleagant can’t afford the luxury to be picky. 

“Are you open?” he asks as he walks through the door. 

The barista startles and hastily jumps off his chair. 

“We are!” He sends Maleagant a wide, too-cheerful smile. “Good morning! What can I get you?”

Maleagant presses his lips into a thin line and casts a quick glance at the menu. 

“Double espresso,” he says. “The stronger the better.” 

“Will do.” The barista fetches a cup and a black marker from behind the counter then raises his eyebrows in question. “And your name is…?” 

_My name? What is this, a bloody Starbucks?_

Maleagant almost says this aloud, but thankfully manages to hold his tongue. He has no time to waste on arguments, and he’s entirely too good at starting them. 

“Maleagant.” 

His voice sounds clipped and annoyed, but the barista doesn’t seem to notice the tension. He simply nods and scribbles the name across the cup, miraculously refraining from questioning Maleagant’s parents’ sanity. 

“That’ll be one and a half pounds,” he says, checking the filter. “Want a scone with it? They are fresh.” 

“No.”

Leaving a two-pound coin on the counter, Maleagant crosses his arms and watches the barista as he busies himself with making the coffee. 

The guy seems to be fairly competent at his job, not too young—mid-twenties, perhaps even older. Dark hair and dark eyes, a short neat beard, bold, almost severe features softened only by the sinful curve of his mouth. He’s undoubtedly attractive, but Maleagant is still surprised that he even notices such a thing. It’s been a while since he felt even a sliver of interest towards someone, but then— 

Then, it’s been a while since he allowed himself a luxury to simply pause and _watch_. 

Perhaps there is a certain magic to be found in smaller, quieter places. 

“Here you go,” the barista says, placing the steaming cup on the counter. “Double espresso, extra strong. The lids and sugar are at the end of the bar.” 

Maleagant’s eyebrow twitches. It’s not that he truly expected the barista to be able to write his name correctly—especially considering that it doesn’t have the uniform spelling—but it still irks him to see ' _Malagant'_ boldly scribbled across the cup. 

“You got the spelling wrong,” he says. 

He doesn’t doubt that his expression conveys the full depth of his annoyance and displeasure, but the only thing that answers him is the barista’s sunny smile. The guy must think himself a charmer, perhaps he even _is_ , but— 

But Maleagant still sorely lacks caffeine, and he _refuses_ to be charmed. 

“Ah,” the barista says. “Sorry about that. Promise to do better next time?” 

Maleagant huffs. 

“What makes you think there _will_ be next time?”

He takes the cup from the counter and brings it to his mouth to make a small, careful sip. The coffee is still too hot, but it is fragrant and strong, and that seems to be enough to curb the worst of his annoyance. 

The barista shrugs. 

“Just a hunch,” he says. “You seem like the type of guy who’d wanna make sure I get this right.” 

Maleagant is _not_. It’s true that he’s demanding and very particular about details, but he’s never had a habit of giving people _second chances._ Or _any_ chances, if he’s being honest with himself. Perhaps that is the reason why he’s thirty-five and single. 

He takes another sip to hide his grimace. 

“Everything’s fine?” the barista asks. He is annoyingly observant, but his concern seems surprisingly genuine. His eyes look kind, and that isn’t something Maleagant sees often. “Is the coffee to your liking? I can tweak a few things next time you visit…” 

“You are awfully determined to make sure I return.”

“Small business and all,” the barista smiles. “We’ve just opened, you know. We could use a few regulars.” 

“Sure.”

“So... how’s coffee?”

Maleagant doesn’t answer right away. He twists the cup in his fingers then takes a sip, this time making sure to savor the taste. It’s— _good_ , flavourful, and delightfully bitter, without a hint of sourness he detests. He wouldn’t want to change a thing. 

“It’s fine,” he says. “Passable.” 

The barista’s smile grows wider and the corners of his eyes crinkle. He seems to take Maleagant’s words as a compliment, which isn’t _wrong_ , it’s just— 

Maleagant is too used to making atrocious first impressions. He’s too used to being labeled right away an asshole or an arrogant prick. That’s what he _is_ , of course, but that’s not _everything_ he is, and— 

And why would he think that this barista guy is capable of looking deeper? 

He probably just doesn’t want to lose a client. 

“So… I’ll see you around?” the barista asks, his eyes hopeful. 

Maleagant exhales. It’s not that he _wants_ to crush the guy’s hope, but this whole exchange unsettles him more than he’s willing to admit, and putting up his defenses is a habit he doesn’t know how to break. He doesn’t know if it’s worth breaking. 

“I don’t think so,” he says coldly. “Have a good day.” 

“You too…”

Maleagant clutches the cup in his fingers and turns on his heels to head towards the exit. He doesn’t look at the barista, but he still hears his soft and forlorn sigh. 

He pretends it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. 

***

Maleagant goes back to ‘the round tables’ exactly four days later.

The coffee shop he frequented before adds half an hour to his commute, the one right next to his workplace sells nothing but coffee-flavored water, and _Starbucks_ offers pretty much the same just thrice the price. 

All in all, choosing the new place is perfectly _reasonable_.

It still feels like defeat. 

The coffee shop is busier this time, two of the four tables are occupied and there is an older guy near the counter struggling to put the lid on his cup, but the barista is a familiar face. He smiles broadly when he notices Maleagant and waves at him as if they are old friends. 

“So you are back,” he says, entirely too gleeful. “What can I get you this time?”

“Double espresso.” Maleagant doesn’t even bother to address the first comment. 

“Not a fan of changes, I see,” the barista picks up the marker from the counter and uncaps it with his teeth. “Maleagant, right?” 

Maleagant nods. 

“Yes. It’s spelled—”

“No, don’t tell me,” the barista interrupts. “I’ve got to guess it myself.” 

Maleagant huffs in annoyance, but for some reason decides not to argue. 

“What’s the point of it, anyway?” he asks instead. “It is a small place, you don’t _need_ to label the drinks.”

“Well, no,” the barista agrees. He wipes the filter with a cloth and reaches for the coffee beans. The sleeves of his plaid shirt are rolled up, revealing his lean forearms. His hands are long-fingered and deft, he makes a simple act of coffee making look almost like an _art_ , and Maleagant finds that he enjoys watching him work. “But I’ve always kind of liked that they do this in Starbucks. It makes the whole experience a little more personal, you know? Also gives you a pretty good conversation starter.”

He sends Maleagant a quick, fleeting smile. 

Maleagant raises his eyebrows. He finds it ironic that the barista himself doesn’t wear a tag, but while he _is_ curious about his name, he isn’t going to ask it. Revealing his interest is a poor choice, especially when he knows it won’t lead to anything of substance. 

“Your definition of “good” might not be the same as mine,” he says flatly. “And I don’t believe that having my name on the cup makes me seem more approachable.” 

He _isn’t_ approachable. He prefers to keep people at arm’s length or even further, he detests those who act overly familiar with him, he’s quick to judge and even quicker to pass the sentence. Those things have never truly bothered him, but— 

But sometimes he wonders if the walls that he built around himself keep away even those he'd _want_ to let closer. 

“Maybe just a tiny bit,” the barista says. There is a small smile tucked in the corners of his mouth, but it doesn’t feel mocking. “I mean, we _are_ talking, aren’t we?” 

“I suppose we are…”

Even if Maleagant simply doesn’t _do_ small talk. Just like he doesn’t give people second chances. 

“Your coffee,” the barista places the cup on the counter. 

He looks at Maleagant with a hopeful, questioning gaze, but— 

It is ‘ _Maliagant_ ’ this time, which _is_ marginally better, but still not quite right.

Maleagant shakes his head. 

“I’m afraid not,” he says. 

The barista’s shoulders sag, but he doesn’t seem to be particularly upset. 

“Well, there is always next time,” he says. 

For a moment Maleagant considers denying it just on principle, but he already knows that he _will_ be back, and he hates pointless lies. 

“I _do_ need to make sure you get my name right,” he says, lifting the corner of his mouth. “However many tries it takes.” 

He wonders what on earth he's getting himself into. 


	2. Chapter 2

Maleagant ends up going to ‘the round tables’ every morning before work. 

Sometimes he’s greeted by the familiar barista, sometimes there is a younger ginger-haired girl instead. She never asks for Maleagant’s name and never makes his coffee quite as flavourful or strong. 

The barista still doesn’t get the name right. 

It has been Meleagan, Meliagant, Meliagaunt, Meliagant, Meliaganz and Maligant so far, and he’s not once repeated himself. He must be keeping a _list_ , and the lengths he’s willing to go to annoy Maleagant are truly impressive. 

He _must_ be messing up on purpose, by why would he do that?

Why does Maleagant continue to allow this? 

The coffee shop gets busier by day, it’s often crowded in the morning, and getting coffee there no longer saves much time. By now it’s foolish to deny that the barista is the reason Maleagant keeps coming back, he just can’t grasp what _is_ it in this guy that makes him so attractive. 

Waiting in line, he often watches the barista interact with people. 

He’s always friendly and attentive, he’s quick to smile or crack a joke or add a compliment that’s never impolite. He _is_ a charmer, there is a light in him that seems to lure people closer like moths to flames, and Maleagant isn’t immune to it either. 

He _hates_ it.

He hates that he wishes to be more than one of many. 

Deep down he knows that they are unlikely to work. There is an insurmountable gap between them, in their age, education, and social status as well. It doesn’t matter how skillful this guy is in finding cracks in Maleagant’s armor, how understanding he is towards his vehement refusal to be nice, he still won’t be able to handle his baggage. 

He might not even want to _try_. 

It’s not like Malegant has never been mistaken about people’s interest in him. 

“Your coffee is ready.” 

Maleagant blinks. Distracted by his thoughts, he completely missed his turn in line, but of course the barista knows his order by heart. He seems to be amused by Maleagant’s lack of attention, or maybe simply eager for another joke at his expense. 

“I hope you _were_ going to order your usual.”

Lowering his eyes on the cup already sitting on the counter, Maleagant tries but miserably fails to hold back a completely undignified snort. 

“Mellyagraunce?” he says. “ _Really_? Why would you even think there is an “r” in there?”

“There isn’t?” The barista’s face is a picture of innocence, but his eyes are laughing. “I thought for sure… Welsh names are pretty weird, you know.” 

“I’m not Welsh,” Maleagant scowls. 

“Irish then?”

His _mother_ actually is, but— 

“None of your business.”

It comes out harsher than he intended, but the barista doesn’t seem to be put out by it. He never does. There is something unfailingly optimistic about him, he seems to be willing to believe the best in people, and this might be a rather naive outlook, but Maleagant appreciates it. 

He doesn’t generally _want_ to hurt people, he’s just never bothered to learn how to avoid it. 

“I guess not,” the barista says. “But… I kind of wish it was.” 

Maleagant blinks. For all the guy’s friendliness, he’s never been this bold before, and it’s pretty much impossible to read _this_ wrong, but— 

Maleagant is still not sure he’s ready to trust his judgment. 

He’s even less sure how to act if he’s correct. 

He licks his lips and swallows. 

“I’m not giving you any hints,” he says, keeping his voice deliberately dry. 

It is a compromise of sorts, not an outright refusal but not acceptance either, a simple agreement to play the game a little longer. A faint shadow of disappointment passes across the barista’s face, and yet he beams at Maleagant a heartbeat later. 

“Alright,” he says. “But next time I’m getting it for sure.”

***

He doesn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes Maleagant a few weeks until he manages to catch the barista—whose name he _still_ doesn’t know—on the weekend. 

It’s early Sunday morning, the coffee shop is blissfully empty, and Maleagant thinks he will stay in for a while and maybe enjoy the book he took with him. He still asks for his coffee to go. The odd game the barista keeps playing is yet to come to its end, and Maleagant _is_ curious how many more variations of his name he’s going to see. 

“You know,” the barista leans onto the counter, his eyes mirthful and his smile just a tiny bit mischievous. “I’m feeling pretty confident in my guess. I’ve certainly been getting closer…”

He certainly _has not_ , though nothing truly topped ‘ _Mellyagraunce_ ’ _._ The barista proved to be surprisingly good at toeing the line of plausible deniability, and that is why— 

That is why Maleagant is genuinely surprised to find “Melwas” on the cup. 

It’s _not_ his name, not even its most ludicrous spelling, but it _does_ belong to the character he was named after. 

Maleagant presses his lips into a thin line and narrows his eyes at the barista. 

“I don’t suppose you have a good explanation for _this_ one,” he says. 

The barista ruffles the hair at the back of his head and chuckles. 

“You caught me,” he says. “I finally ran out of options.” 

“Except for the correct one,” Maleagant says. “Would you be so kind as to enlighten me what was the actual purpose of this game of yours?” 

“Well…”

The barista blinks and lowers his eyes, suddenly looking embarrassed. Maleagant can swear he can see the tips of his ears flushing red. 

“I mean, you did tell me… I wanted to make sure you’d keep coming back.”

Maleagant has to bite his tongue to stop himself from pointing out how utterly ridiculous it sounds. He’s pretty sure that the barista _knows_ it. It’s likely he simply got carried away, though that still doesn’t say much about his smarts. 

“So I take it you googled my name,” he says instead. 

The barista huffs a small laugh.

“Not for a while, actually,” he says. “I pride myself in having pretty extensive knowledge of Arthurian lore. Comes with the—” 

He stops mid-sentence and shakes his head.

Maleagant silently raises his eyebrows. 

“I’m Arthur,” the barista says. “I wanted to introduce myself earlier, but that would’ve given me away, and so I kind of… didn’t.”

Idly, Maleagant wonders if this is truly the person he’s interested in. He certainly thought his type to be at least a _little_ smart. 

“Arthur,” he says. “From ‘the round tables’.” 

The name leaves an odd taste on his tongue.

Unlike his own, it’s hardly uncommon, and so there isn’t much of a coincidence in the fact that they’ve met, but Malegant still feels a weird flip in his stomach, a sense of serendipity that adds an unwelcome allure of romance to an ordinary thing.

There’s nothing _kingly_ in this guy, no air of wisdom or regality around him, and Maleagant himself might fit an image of a villain, but he’s not a coward, nor he's a _rapist,_ he— 

He silences these thoughts. 

“I thought the name was cute,” Arthur says. “When I decided to work here, I mean. I don’t… I don’t own the place or anything.”

“Didn’t think you do.”

“Right. Well,” Arthur scratches his head. 

He seems a little lost and confused, suddenly lacking his usual charm, and Maleagant is amused to realize he must be way less confident with those he's actually interested in. 

It is surprisingly endearing, even if he won’t admit it aloud. 

Maleagant allows himself a hint of a smile. 

“So, aren’t you afraid I’m going to steal your wife?” he asks. 

Arthur blinks, then lets out a shaky laugh. 

“I don’t have a wife,” he says. “Or a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend for that matter, although I’ve been hoping…” 

A _boyfriend_. Maleagant’s expression must show exactly how poorly he thinks of this word because Arthur’s face falls and his eyes look uncertain once more. It seems that he isn’t completely resilient to Maleagant’s harsher judgments, he still fears rejection, and— 

There is an odd sort of comfort to be found in this. 

“I prefer the term “partner,” Maleagant says, willing his expression to soften. “One day I might even call you that. But first…” 

“First?” Arthur looks hopeful. 

“ _First_ you’d have to actually guess my name.” 

Arthur lets out a short, full-bellied laugh. 

“I will,” he promises. “I definitely will.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Voilà!” Arthur hands Maleagant the cup, his expression a mix of eagerness and pride. “I’ve tried a new brew, it is a little stronger so I hope you like it. I’m finishing at five, and then maybe we could—” 

_Meleagant_ , the writing on the cup reads. 

“No,” Maleagant says. “The answer is still no.”

“But…” Arthur seems genuinely bemused.“It _has_ to be the one!” 

“Want me to show my id?” 

Arthur had two variants left—both equally common—and he chose _the wrong one._ It must be karmic retribution, which makes Maleagant feel vindicated and viciously gleeful, although he _was_ looking forward to their date. 

Arthur sighs. 

“No, don’t. I guess I deserved that…” 

“You did.”

“But, I mean,” Arthur raises his head. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose…”

“ _No_ ,” Maleagant interjects. “Don’t even try that.”

A smile slips on his lips uninvited, he _is_ amused and just a little bit charmed, but he _refuses_ to be courted with Shakespeare.

“You have a beautiful smile,” Arthur murmurs. 

“That won’t work either.”

“I know,” Arthur chuckles. “I’m being sincere.” 

And he _is_. There is something soft in his eyes when he looks at Maleagant, something that betrays genuine _affection_ and not simple attraction. 

It is that something, Maleagant thinks, that makes him willing to _try_. 

It is that something that promises that, despite all odds, they might work. 

Maleagant has never been the kind of person to give people second chances, but sometimes you _have_ to try and try again to get things right.

Sometimes it’s worth it. 

“I think I’ll have another cup today,” he says. “So you’ll have one another try.”

The smile on Arthur’s face is brilliant and open, his eyes are full of joy. 

_It’s worth it._


End file.
